


He Sings Me to Sleep

by percyval



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, M/M, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percyval/pseuds/percyval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how weightless I become, he will never truly love me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Sings Me to Sleep

I pad onto the scale.

My feet stick to the cool, plastic surface, and it worries me how much it creaks beneath my weight.

 _51.25 kg_ , it reads in faint, glowing green. The sun hasn't risen yet. I'm still awake, and I can't breathe.

He watches me, over my shoulder, and holds my hand as I step off the scale. I feel relieved as I lift myself off of it, knowing I'm not going to break it. He takes me into his arms, and holds me as I feel light as a feather. His hands are cold, feeling wonderful against my skin.

"Good job," he reassures me. "You get a break today."

His breath freezes my neck, and he trails soft kisses down the surface. I smile, and run one hand down his back, caressing his shoulder blade which juts out as he moves his hand to my arse.

He offers sex as a reward, something I work hard to earn. When I haven't eaten too much, and I've worked myself ragged, I'm given the treat of having soft, quite lovely, sex.

I exhale sharply as he trails his fingers gently up into my boxers, putting them to work. He's often very gentle when we fuck, he makes it last long and he makes it almost unbearable when I am reaching climax. It's pure torture but the result is absolutely amazing. A slow process with a thrilling conclusion.

The bathroom counter is extremely cold, it makes the hairs on my thighs stand straight on end.

He growls into my ear as he tugs me, by my hips, into him. I sigh, and hold onto him with as much strength as I can manage.

His grinding starts slow, and it gives me enough time to warm up. I whimper as he speeds up, wishing that I had more time to enjoy the slower, rubbing sensation. But, the quicker speed is still good.

I lock eyes with him, and he smirks. I can't believe how incredibly attractive it is on him. He leans in, and kisses me quickly, rough, the way I would normally quite like around this point.

But, this time it's taking me forever to warm up.

Back when I first met him, Harry, he used to easily get me turned on. We'd sprawl out on my bed, locked in my tiny, cramped bedroom, fucking each other until it hurt. It went from rough, to typical, to quite soft. I don't know why, but I don't know why I'm complaining if I still love it. He rocks his hips in perfect rhythm with mine, bumping against me on occasion, but still feeling like Heaven.

I arch my back, right into him, while his hands move down to my thighs. He grabs them, pulling them apart almost too roughly for my liking.

"Ow," I bite under my breath, lowering my head while squeezing my eyes shut.

"Am I hurting you?" He asks. It sounds like a tease.

I don't say anything, I just shake my head and let him continue.

He starts pulling me by my thighs, and I notice he's starting to get hard. I look up into his eyes, and lean down, expecting him to want a blowjob.

But, he pushes me back. Insisting _he_ should do something to me.

Harry pushes hard into me, and I groan. This isn't good.

"Here, to inspire you to do better next time," he pulls my boxers down, and slips his cock out.

More akin to what we used to do.

I am backed up into the mirror, whining and groaning as he fucks me. He makes it hard, makes it rough, and I absolutely adore it. I'm melting in his arms.

It doesn't take much for him to please me, and I writhe as he speeds up. Harry pushes me roughly into the mirror, my head bumping up against it. It doesn't hurt too bad after the initial shock, and I just keep my legs arched up, supporting myself while he keeps going.

My eyes are scrunched tight, I refuse to open them while he helps me reach climax. The moment he hits my prostate, I scream close-lipped, throwing my head back. He keeps going a few moments after that, before removing himself. His face is now harsh, cold. He looks more displeased with me than I even feel.

"If you even dare fuck it up next time, it's going to hurt you." He threatens, tugging at the skin on my stomach. I nod, and I could lie and say I was going to cry.

Every week he comes, he yells at me, tells me that I'm not thin enough. Telling me that I have too much fat on me.

Once he was kind, he was sweet, he'd tell me that if I didn't eat that slice of cake I'd be better off. He'd reassure me, hold my hand and slowly adjust me into starving myself.

As time went on, he became harsher. He was more critical, he'd judge me relentlessly until I was curled up in a corner, afraid to move a muscle if he'd hit me. I just had to wait until he fizzled away back in my head, back where I felt only a bit safer from him.

"I'll never leave you. You _need_ me. And you can't even escape me. I won't leave. I'm buried in your brain and you're going to have to stand me the rest of your life."

And he's right.

No matter how weightless I become, he will never truly love me.


End file.
